


Heroin, She Said

by lordhellebore



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Dark, Drug Use, F/M, M/M, Post - Order of the Phoenix, Post-War, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-18
Updated: 2005-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-03 22:54:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordhellebore/pseuds/lordhellebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What will become of the Death Eaters' children after Voldemort is vanquished? Having dinner with his wife and best friends, Ron Weasley tells of an accidental meeting with Pansy Parkinson in the nocturnal streets of London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heroin, She Said

**Author's Note:**

> 1) The lyrics belong to the song "Heroin, She Said" by Wolfsheim.

Usually, I’m always hungry. I don’t know why, it seems it’s just a part of me. Hermione sometimes wonders how I can stuff myself like that and still not get fat. She’d thought it would stop when I’d stop growing, but apparently she was wrong, for once.

Today, however, I’m not. It’s dinnertime on a Friday evening, and I push around the peas on my plate, watching the others who’re sitting at the table. The others, that’s Hermione – Hermione Weasley for three years now – Harry and Draco.

Strange, isn’t it, that Draco Malfoy, of all people, should be one of my best friends now. But it’s true, and although in the beginning I had a hard time accepting he’d changed, I’m now glad it’s the way it is. I can see the loving looks Harry shoots him every now and then, and when he reaches up and caresses his cheek, Draco closes his eyes and leans into the touch, smiling. Yes, he’s changed a lot since sixth year.

I don’t think I can imagine just how hard it was for him to overcome all the stupid prejudices he’s imbibed from his infancy - all this rubbish about pureblood predominance and whatever parents like his have brainwashed their children into believing. But he did it, and he did it for Harry.

I’ll never understand how they fell in love between all the fights and insults, but somewhere along the way, it seems, their hate turned into the opposite. And, as Draco told us later, once he’d realised that it was no use fighting his feelings, he tried everything to make himself acceptable in Harry’s eyes. These words from someone as proud as a Malfoy really meant something.

He not only had to give up most of what he’d believed to be true so far, but also his friends and family. His father, being Voldemort’s right-hand-man, didn’t approve, of course, and Draco had to ask Dumbledore for protection.

At first, most of us didn’t trust him, but the last doubts were dispelled when he fought bravely in the final battle against Voldemort, in the end shielding some younger students with his body as he’d lost his wand. He’d been gravely injured and now needs a cane to walk – rather ironic, come to think of it, because he told us he’d always hated his father’s ridiculous cane with the snake on top.

My thoughts return to the present, to the cooling food on my dish, and finally, I can’t take it any longer. It’s been pressing down on me for days now, and I wonder why I haven’t already told Hermione.

“I saw Pansy Parkinson on Tuesday.”

I don’t speak very loud, but it captures their attention immediately.

“Where did you meet her?” Harry asks.

“Why haven’t you told me?” Hermione demands.

“How is she?” That’s Draco, his voice soft and a little anxious, although he tries to conceal it. I can see him stiffen, and for a moment I wish I’d just kept my mouth shut. But it’s too late for that now. So I tell.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

_It’s close to midnight, and it’s raining. We’ve just completed a mission successfully, and Kingsley, Tonks and Moody are on their way to Azkaban to deliver the two Death Eaters we’ve captured. Voldemort’s been destroyed for three years, but still there are some of them who’ve escaped justice until now. You should think they’d maintain a low profile, and most of the time they do. But every now and then they seem to think it’s necessary to remind us of their existence, and they try something._

_They’re quick, and often we Aurors are too late to find anything but the Dark Mark and some injured people, or, even worse, a corpse. But today we got them before they could do any true harm. They gave us quite a fight, but luckily, none of us were hurt._

_I’m supposed to return to the Ministry and write a report, but I decide that it can wait for another hour. Instead, I take a walk through the streets of London. I like the night, and I like the sound of the rain on the roofs and pavement – they help me to calm down after a fight, to clear my thoughts before I return to my desk and, after that, home._

_I’m not the one for the big main streets; I like the small ones better, where there aren’t so many cars and people. So, I make my way through the dark alleys, which are poorly lighted by few lanterns – and that’s when I see her._

  
**Walking down the streets at night  
** I see her stumbling through the rain  
A skinny figure in the dark  
Her face a shade of grey  


_Even though she’s still some metres away, I can see in how poor a shape she is. Just like me, she’s soaked through, and her too big clothes are sticking to her body, making her look even skinnier than she already is. She's having difficulties staying on her feet and has to steady herself against the walls every few steps. My first thought is that maybe she’s been robbed and needs help – my Auror instincts are kicking in. But then she comes nearer, and I realise it must be something else._

_The few people who’re outside here try to avoid her, but she doesn’t seem to care and approaches them anyway, begging for money in a loud and hoarse voice, insulting them obscenely when they refuse. Maybe she’s drunk, I think, and I feel slightly disgusted, not so keen on helping her any more._

  


**Begging here and barking there  
** She's swearing all the time  
Her fingers fumbling with her hair  
A dirty mess of grime

_Now she’s arguing with a fat man with an umbrella. He doesn’t seem willing to give her what she wants, because he tells her to just leave him alone “you stupid junkie!” and suddenly she goes overboard and tries to attack him, her thin hands clawing at his coat._

_“Just some money for a shot!” she yells. “Just one fucking shot! I need it, can’t you see that, you filthy Muggle!”_

_Muggle? She can’t know that word, unless she’s a witch, and I’m startled at the thought. While I’m still wondering, the man has managed to push her away after a short struggle, and she falls to the ground, knocking over a dustbin. The rattling is loud in the nightly streets, and a window opens, and someone demands that there be silence, immediately, or they’ll call the police._

_The fat man turns to leave, and suddenly the street is empty except for her and me. I don’t quite know what to do – go and see if I can help her? She slowly gets to her knees, and then I hear a retching noise and I realise she’s throwing up. That tips the scales, and I rush over to her._

.-.-.-.-.-.

**And she starts to cry and she's asking why  
** Her life's always the same  
But she does not see that unfortunately  
There's no one here to blame  


_When I arrive she’s stopped retching, but now she’s crying and babbling incoherently. I kneel down next to her, and even though it’s raining, she’s reeking with dirt. Bugger, she stinks! I realise she’s puked all over her already filthy clothes, and even in her long matted hair there’s vomit. I can’t bring myself to touch her._

_She’s begun rocking herself, her arms wrapped tightly around her body, and still she’s talking._

_"Need a shot,” I understand, “just one fucking shot, just some scag…” and then she coughs, and her skinny form is shaken by the force of it. When the fit has abated, she goes on, still oblivious to my presence, rambling about how she needs a shot, “just one, just to make it go away, just to stand it all, just to fucking_ feel alive _again!”_

  


**"Heroin," she said, "was the best I had  
** No more mountains left to climb  
The world so slow, all my dreams just too high  
To be fulfilled in time..."  


_As I watch her, I realise she can’t be much older than me, and despite that it’s raining and dark and the dirt on her face is almost like a second skin, she seems vaguely familiar. Maybe she’d gone to Hogwarts with me, I think, and I wonder how this could have happened. How can someone from Hogwarts end up in London’s Muggle drug scene?_

_But then I hear “stupid Muggles” and “the Dark Lord was always right about that”, and now realisation dawns on me. And it hurts. It hurts, because I’ve stumbled over something most of us prefer to forget, and suddenly I’m furious, not with her, but with myself and our world. Our brave, new, Voldemort-free world, full of decent people with decent pasts._

_The others, the Death Eaters, are dead or in Azkaban, except for the few who’re still hiding, and they’re constantly getting fewer. Their children, however, bear the blame for what their parents did. There is an orphanage for Death Eater children, because not many families were willing to adopt them, and so those who were still under age became wards of the Ministry._

_Most of those who already had finished school didn’t get a job and have to somehow eke out a living. It’s hard to survive in a world where you’re being shunned and despised for who you were raised to be, even more so when all you believe in suddenly is wrong. Many turned from being the upper class into the lowest of the low of the wizarding world._

_I think I now understand how she ended up like this, and driven by a sudden instinct, I reluctantly reach out and touch her shoulder. She spins around and grabs my arm tightly, staring at me from wide eyes._

  


**And she grabs my arm, and I feel alarmed  
** Her fingers gripping tight  
I see her pleading eyes, so I start to disguise  
And say that everything's alright  


_My first impulse is to jerk my arm free of her death grip, but I’m too shocked to do so, because now I recognise her._

_“Pansy!”_

_She blinks, obviously confused that I know her. She’s still crying, her face smeared with vomit and snot, and even though I never liked her, I can’t take it to see her like this. She’s always been so proud – and look at her now! But what can I do? For the time being, I can’t think of anything useful, so I just tell her that it’s going to be alright. I even manage to stroke her shoulder a little, and by the way she's leaning into the touch and looking at me, I can see no one has done something like that in quite a while._

_“You… you really think so?” she whispers hoarsely, and I’m struck by the desperate hope in her voice._

  


**And the reason why I pretended and lied  
** Is that I don't want to kill  
The poor dream that's left in the deepest cleft  
Of the thing that she calls will  


_“Yes, of course,” I reply, and I realise that I’d like to believe it. For her sake, of course, but maybe just as much because it would soothe my guilty conscience, and suddenly I feel terribly hypocritical._

_She must have noticed, for now she's laughing, softly at first, but soon it’s an ugly, barking sound which again ends in a coughing fit._

_“You’re lying,” she murmurs. “You’re lying. There’s nowhere to go for us. You don’t want us, and it’s a shame, a shame! I should have been rich and respected, and those worthless Muggles should fear me, but instead I’m begging them for money and a place to sleep.”_

_I want to say it’s not true. That there is a place for her. That she could come back if only she’d overcome her prejudices, if only she’d learn to get along and adjust to the changes. Draco has managed to do so. While he’s not liked by everyone, he’s worked hard to be accepted, and he’s been successful._

_But I know it’s useless. Draco has a reason: he has Harry. What does Pansy have?_

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

I stop talking, and the shocked silence seems to be the longest one I’ve ever experienced, even though it only lasts for some moments.

“And what happened then?” Harry asks, obviously shaken.

“Nothing,” I say. “Nothing more. She suddenly just got up and left. I don’t think she recognised me.”

I don’t quite know why I’m lying, but I have a feeling it’s better like this.

“I would have married her.” Draco’s voice. Soft and sad. “The thought of it wasn’t that bad, and I had gotten used to it. It had been planned ever since we were born, after all.”

Yes. They’d been betrothed to each other, he’s told us about that. Arranged marriages still aren’t that unusual, at least among old pureblood families. Rich old pureblood families, that is.

“I liked her, in a way.” I notice he’s taken Harry’s hand into his own and is staring into space, looking at no one. “She was arrogant, of course, and unbelievably obtrusive, and she’d prattle away endlessly, no matter whether or not you were interested in what she had to say. But she had her good sides.”

For a moment, I only think of Pansy how she’d been at school, and I ask myself if he wants to believe that because he had to see at least something in her if he didn’t want to go insane at the prospect of marrying her. But only a second later, I feel disgusted by myself. I wouldn’t have credited him with any decent qualities either, and now he’s one of my best friends. I just didn’t know her.

“She’d always help Vince and Greg with their homework,” Draco goes on, and he’s smiling a little at the memory. “She’d never give up on them, even though everyone told her to.”

Just like Hermione, I think. She’d always helped Harry and me, too, but we had at least some brains. Still, it annoyed her how slow we were sometimes – and I know Pansy, too, had pretty good grades. It must have driven her mad.

“And at the beginning of every new term, Snape would make a speech on what it meant to be a Slytherin, and of course the first-years were terrified of him. She was the one to tell them he wasn’t that bad and to come to her if they didn’t dare to go to him with a problem.”

Well, I suppose someone had to do that – Snape as Head of House, no, thank you very much. Not that McGonagall was the motherly type, but still…

“It could have worked,” he says. “I wouldn’t have been unhappy.” Then he turns his head, and his gaze falls on Harry, and he smiles again. It’s a wavering smile, and to me it seems that he can’t decide whether it’s a happy or a sad one. “But that was before…”

Harry smiles back at him, and once more I see the love in his eyes. I’m truly happy for them, because if they love each other just half as much as Hermione and I do, they have something wonderful – and I think they do. At this thought, I look at my wife, but she’s still watching them and not paying attention to me.

“Harry, don’t,” she says softly.

Don’t what? My eyes flicker back to him, and I notice he has _that_ look, and I realise he’s doing it again. He’s blaming himself again. He always does, and it saddens, frightens and annoys me, all at once.

He’s not responsible for Cedric’s death. He couldn’t know the cup was a Portkey with Voldemort waiting at the other side of it. He wanted to be fair.

He’s not to blame for Sirius’s death, either. Yes, he should have checked if Kreacher was telling the truth, and he shouldn’t have darted off to the Ministry harum-scarum, that’s true. But it was Voldemort who set the trap, and Sirius, himself, decided to leave Headquarters. Harry says he has a “saving people thing”, but you could say the same about Sirius, then.

And he most certainly is not to blame for his parents’ death. Wormtail betrayed them, and Voldemort murdered them. He did it because of the prophecy, of course – but it wasn’t Harry who made it!

Hell, he even feels guilty for killing Voldemort in the end, although there was no choice and everyone’s better off without a Dark Lord terrorising them. And it wasn’t Harry who wanted this war. Again, it was Voldemort.

Once he said it was his fault that Voldemort ever came back in the first place, because he spared Wormtail’s life. If he had let Sirius kill him, Voldemort might have forever stayed disembodied. That might be true, but then Harry wouldn’t have been better than his enemy, and it’s exactly that which makes him different.

“Bugger!” I blurt out. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have told you, either of you.”

I know I’m not the most sensitive one, I’ve never been. That’s Hermione’s part. I’m the one to play Quidditch with, the one to make stupid jokes which make Harry and Draco laugh and Hermione roll her eyes, saying “Men!” I’m the one who still doesn’t get it when everyone else has figured it out for ages, and finally someone has mercy on me and explains, and they shake their heads in disbelief and, I suppose, a little amused affection. I don't really mind.

“No, it’s okay,” Harry says. “Remember what you told me in sixth year at Hogwarts, after Sirius died?”

Of course I do. As I said, he’d blamed himself for what had happened, and he’d been miserable. But he’d hidden it well, and when finally we’d found out, we’d berated him endlessly for not telling us.

 _‘We’re your friends, Harry! If you need to talk, we’ll listen, no matter what!’_ Never mind our pain at hearing all your self-accusations, at seeing just how close you are to losing it. Never mind that we, too, are miserable for not noticing earlier how much in need our best friend is. Never mind that, because it’s worth it if it helps you to get that off your chest.

“Yes,” I say, and a warm feeling is welling up inside me. “I understand. Thanks, mate.”

They smile at me, Draco as well as Harry, and I can’t help but smile back, and for a moment, I forget what this is all about, forget Pansy and the vomit in her hair. How lucky I am to have such friends, I think, and that’s when it all comes back to me, because she doesn’t. She doesn’t.

Suddenly, I’m very glad I didn’t tell them everything. Maybe I’ll tell Hermione, later, when they’re gone. I don’t yet know.

.-.-.-.-.-.

_Pansy is staring down at the ground again, vomit slowly dripping from the wet strands of hair into the puddle in front of her. I don’t know what to say, but she puts me out of my misery, because suddenly she looks up, her eyes perfectly aware, and I gasp at the pain I can see in them._

_“I loved him, Weasley,” she says. “Really, I do.”_

_Of course, I know whom she's talking about, and I also know she doesn’t mix the tenses accidentally._

_Then the moment is gone. She lets go of my arm and gets to her feet, swaying. I get up as well, unsure of what to do, but before I can think more deeply about it, she’s turned to leave. I watch her rain-soaked form stagger down the street and disappear behind a corner._

_She’s gone, and the only remainder of what’s taken place is the vomit on the pavement before me, which is already being washed away by the rain._

  


**"Heroin," she said, "was the best I had  
** No more mountains left to climb  
The world so slow, all my dreams just too high  
To be fulfilled in time..."  


.-.-.-.-.-.

This is the moment when the wailing of a baby can be heard from upstairs. Hermione gets up to look after our son, and we’re silent until she returns ten minutes later, picking at our food, forcing ourselves to clear our dishes.

“Would you like some more?” she asks in a flat voice when she’s come back, but none of us is hungry anymore.

Not even I, and usually, I’m always hungry.


End file.
